Whatever the Weather
On November 4, 2021 by Speranza
Nothing is more boring than talking about the weather: what it’s going to do, what it might do, what “they” said it was supposed to do and then never did. All of this prattling makes me crazy and doesn’t even count as small talk in my book. That said, The General takes a keen interest in all-things-weather and yet, strangely is rarely satisfied. He is, in fact, A Goldilocks for All Seasons. There are approximately three days during the year when he will admit to the weather being “not too bad” and suitable for whatever it is he needs to do.
I recently pointed out that although he complained hourly last winter about blowing snow, frigid temperatures (or, as the weather-nerds will have it, The Polar Vortex) as soon as the spring sun began to warm the earth and I tried to lure him outside to a sheltered, sunny nook on the deck, he shook his head rapidly, shocked, saying it was far too wet and besides, “they” had said it was going to turn cold again that night. In summer, of course, it’s usually too hot, dangerous even, to be in the garden for too long and where was that sunscreen/hat/protective eye wear anyway etc.
Other People’s Hams
On September 22, 2021 by Speranza
I’ve been a food enthusiast for most of my adult life and I have even been paid regularly to write about it. I enjoy reading about the history of food, what other people are eating and of course how to make it myself. It’s especially fascinating to me how many similarities, world-wide, there are. For example, every culture seems to have their own version of a “sandwich.” I’ll leave you to ponder examples for yourself.
The interesting thing is that as a child I was often branded as a “terribly picky eater” and it was widely hoped that being subjected to school dinners in the UK – a militaristic, character building ordeal – would be “the making of me” and presumably, would sort me out once and for all.
But first, let me offer my own defence and perspective.
Reel-to-Reel
On August 6, 2021 by Speranza
I’m sure that there is a name for that strange component of our brains that maintains a special vault for certain feelings or thoughts and then trundles them forward for examination sometimes quite unexpectedly. I most often experience this via my sense of smell: one minute I could be hurtling along, making a grocery list in my head – broccoli, yogurt, tinned tomatoes – and the next minute, the sweet smell of clover, a distinctive floral note I always associate with British summer is carried to me on the breeze and suddenly I’m sixteen, lying in the long grasses slow kissing a boy with eyes the colour of river pebbles. And yes, my stomach flips over a little bit just for a second or two then it’s gone.
Sonny Days
On June 9, 2021 by Speranza
I’ve noticed recently that both Frasier and Niles have pulled back a bit in their communications with me; they would both immediately deny this, and yet it is true. For them, time is rushing past and they are totally absorbed in their partners, jobs and friends – and rightly so.
I understand this and well remember that the Starter Husband only communicated with his own parents at 3 pm every-few-dozen-Sundays when the flickering guilt refused to be tamped down any longer. (And to be fair, they made sure to call us weekly. But I do not envy the quality of those conversations either which basically involved asking: “How are you getting on at work?” in varying ways).
For Frasier and Niles, weekends are festive but necessarily marked by the stocking up of food, the cleaning of bathrooms and hopefully, spectacular afternoons spent in bed, followed by an ÜberEats delivery. But, because I am now getting older, not only does this lack of contact make me feel irrelevant, the whole thing is such a tired, grasping cliché. I always felt certain that someone of my own extreme coolness might be spared from such things – unlike that poor wretch Harry Chapin.
In My Salad Days
On May 30, 2021 by Speranza
When I am working in the garden, I tend to go into a meditative state. All kinds of memories and thoughts rush through my head like water in a colander and I try very hard not to ruminate about why these things are presenting themselves today.
As I was on my knees pulling at a gnarled root, I suddenly recalled from many years ago, an older gentleman who was always working in his garden as we drove by at 7:30 am on our way to work. One morning he was toting a kettle, still steaming in the morning chill and carefully doused all the tough, roots-of-iron weeds that lurked between the sidewalk cracks.
“God, what a loser. Talk about having no life,” my Starter-Husband commented, shaking his sleek head still damp from the shower. “Take me, I’m done.”
I’m sure that I laughed in agreement, probably applying lipstick in the pull down mirror of our Subaru as I watched the little man in his tweeds disappearing slowly from view as we sped away. Starter Husband and myself were both in our twenties at the time: we attended designer gym classes with a personal trainer; we were well acquainted with Clinique’s 3-Step cleansing program and apparently, smugly incapable of reading that man’s situation in any other, more complex way. I am deeply ashamed and tearful when I think of that old man now.